


Reunion at Twelve

by QueerLeFay



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur remembers, Awesome Morgana, Immortal Merlin, M/M, Memory Loss, Mention of suicide attempts, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:25:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2362646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerLeFay/pseuds/QueerLeFay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is a timeless warlock who forgets, doing any and everything to get him through his boredom.<br/>Arthur is the once (and perhaps future) king who gets reborn time and time again and always, always remembers, waiting for the man who forgets.<br/>And perhaps it's a coincidence, or fate (or destiny) that he finds his other half (or the other side of his coin) in a chilly winter lake in Wales. But reminding him is another matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion at Twelve

**Author's Note:**

> The mentions of suicide attempts that are in this fic is only a small part of the whole story. I do not intend to be insensitive in any way, I realize that this is a serious issue for some, but the whole purpose of it being mentioned in this story is to depict Merlin as human. He felt helpless at some point in his life, having been robbed out of his happiness and he got tired as well. Moreover, he got bored. He has done so much seeing as he has lived for so long, so he tries to find any and every ways to rid himself off the boredom.  
> This fic kind of focusses on how Merlin has lived over the years, what he had done and stuffs.  
> So do not be fooled by the warning or the explanation, this is a lighthearted fic. Merlin knows the value of living and he likes living - underneath all the tiredness and anger. So yeah, that's all I want to say.  
> Enjoy :)

Drowning is unpleasant. It doesn’t have the same hazy quality as overdosing on drugs or the quick, painless way of shooting yourself at the _right_ places. Drowning is intense. It is slow, somewhat, and kind of painful – what with the burning feeling in your lungs and the automatic gasping for air that isn’t there, which in turn causes more water into entering your systems and makes you choke on it. It’s like being pulled down by invisible hands and all you can do is to wait out for the awaiting peaceful darkness in the midst of burning pain. 

And the wait for the unconsciousness is the longest wait you’ll ever experience - and while you don’t get flashes of your life replaying over your head like when you are about to get hit by a car, you get moving pictures instead. It isn’t as fast-paced or as intense as the flashes – it is slow and sweet, a bit hazy over the edges, like the old family videos your mum keeps.

That – however – is not the case with Merlin. He hasn’t got much of his memory, not anymore. In the years he spent mourning the lost of his king, mum, old friends, and acquaintances, and the later years where he spent his days travelling and adapting to the ever changing world, slowly, his memory began to fail him and he couldn’t remember much of anything anymore. Sometimes, the life he has lived feels more like a wonderfully cruel dream than real-life occurrences. So, it’s only natural that slowly he forgets why he couldn’t die or where he came from – and when at last he forgot about his King several thousand years back, he started to feel an emptiness he couldn’t fill - and he wonders why.

Although, there is one thing from his first ever life that he can't ever forget. His magic.

In his travels, he had gone through so much that if a person were to write a novel based on his journeys, they'd have to write over a hundred novels. He had been everything imaginable to human. He had been both powerful and dismissed. He had been rich and poor. And what helped him the most, in times when money was non-existent and spirit was lost, was his magic. Always his magic. And that's why he can't forget about it. He wouldn't want to anyway.

One of the many times his magic had saved him from a pain he would not like to go through again was when he went to Salem, Massachusetts in 1692, when the uproar about witchcraft was in its peak. The situation reminded him too much of something out of his dreams – of a nameless, lonely king who was not wise enough to accept the consequences of what he asked out of magic. 

That, however, was not the reason of him being there. He was there because he had lost much of his kind and any magical creatures left had been in hiding for too long he suspected them gone. If there were really people with magic in Salem at that time, he would like to assist them should they need it. If they didn't need his help, then he just needed people who could understand the part of him he couldn't share otherwise.

In the end, though, it was a useless endeavour and he'd have skipped going there had he known how it'd play out.

It was a pain to snuck into the community, seeing how small and close-knit it was. It was also giving him a different kind of pain when he tried to reach out to anyone of his kind using magic – mainly because no one had any actual magic there and all of the suspects were only there because their neighbours were either too paranoid for their own good or they were just using the opportunity to get rid of their rivals. So, in the end, he had to swallow his disappointment, contained his loneliness, and moved on.

Although, after having to endure weeks of fruitless pursue and infuriatingly conceited speeches by old people with superiority complex, he was feeling more than a little bitter and a lot angry at the world, and he decided that he couldn’t just move on quietly. Thus how the townspeople find themselves clutching on their chests, mouth agape, as a black haired man stood up and started to show off his magic in front of the podium, blaring out cautions, and disappeared in the midst of fire, wind, and smoke.

He didn't have to do that, obviously, but he wanted them to be even more scared and paranoid. Just because.

Several years after that, he suddenly felt bad because he might have caused more uproar than it originally was – he might even have caused more deaths than necessary.

(He even dreamt about Gaius' unimpressed eyebrow raise. Though he forgot about it as soon as he woke.)

The guilt only stayed for so long until he forgot about that, too.

And then, because he had explored most of the places no other humans had even tried to visit and he had visited so many different groups of people, and he had learned too much he discarded some of the knowledge, he decided to start trying out different occupations (other than being a physician – or a doctor, people nowadays call it).

He had his systems, of course. He would reside in a country or a state or a town for 40 years at most, magicking himself to look as if he had been growing older like any other normal people should, and then he'd move on to other places faraway from where he last resided. He'd build up an amazing resume that was applicable to his next chosen career and claim a new name. Then he would move on again when he grew bored or if the 40 years was up. And he would start over again.

Once the result of his hard work has accumulated to a large number, Merlin deposited them into several banks in different countries, under several pseudonyms. He even has them in different continents. By then, he had worked for so long in his life that he had so many experiences no mere mortal could ever have. The things he failed to do, the skills he couldn't develop, he did and developed in later years. And when the world's economy collapsed and he lost everything save for several pitiful leftovers, he worked again fromthe beginning because he had nothing but time. And slowly, he regained what he lost and more. 

In the early 21st century, he stopped working altogether. One of the reasons, as always, was boredom. The other was because he needed a change of location. And also, he had had enough to live luxuriously by for another hundred years or so. Perhaps. So he packed his bags, sold his latest flat, and went on his way to London.

That was some 13 years ago. 

Though he could have any kinds of houses he wants, any mansions, anything - Merlin prefers to live in flats - mainly because it's less lonely when the space isn't as expansive as a house or a mansion would be, and also, because flats are easier to maintain seeing as he is a lot messy – especially with no one to call him out on it. Once, a long time ago, when he was just trying out flats, he did try to share the space with a flatmate, which didn't go very well – what with his flatmate started to go through his room one day and found his box-of-stuffs, which resulted in him asking one too many questions. After that one mishap, Merlin never did the same mistake of taking a flatmate again. The box-of-stuffs was the one possession he never let anyone else aside from himself touch. And when his misguided ex-flatmate rummaged through the box, Merlin had to evict him and erased his memories. Not necessarily in that order. After he finished tinkering with the man’s brain and sent him to his merry way, he did feel a bit guilty as he realized that perhaps he had overreacted, seeing as it messed the man’s mind up a little – though he didn’t feel the guilt half as much as he probably should.

The box-of-stuffs, as he calls it, is pretty unremarkable. It is grey, as it's made of metal and adorned by nothing but a small handwriting of his name, which lasts only because it was made of magic. What’s inside, however, are everything Merlin valued the most. Sometimes he thought the stuffs were substitutes for his memories - because there, he stored little tokens from each of the places he had been and the people he had met. Some of the first possessions he stored in the box were a square piece of fabric coloured in vermillion red and embroidered with a gold dragon from Arthur’s cape, a piece of platinum band given to him by Gwen when she was in her deathbed, a piece of browning parchment containing Gaius' handwritten 'Merlin, do good', a blue neckerchief his mum had made for him, and a necklace with pendants made of little trinkets the knights gave him. Those were the only stuffs from his time in Camelot, dubbed by Merlin as the time his life began (or at least that’s what he wrote on the paper on top of the collection).

He couldn't remember that, though. He could only see pieces of meaningless, though beautiful fabrics, a rotting note and jewelleries. He couldn't remember much of Camelot except from flashes of memories in his dreams after all. 

Other stuffs that were stuffed into the box were unique pebbles, other kinds of fabrics, shells, jewelleries he had acquired from his lost lovers, and recently, souvenirs from each of the countries he had visited.

Gaius' note was still the only note he had salvaged.

And whenever he feels his moral wavers, when he couldn't tell the good from the bad, he would open his box-of-stuffs and stares at that little note until he knows once more. And whenever he feels lonely, he would open his box-of-stuffs and tries to remember hislife by holding on to each souvenirs, willing his magic to do the remembering for him - to able him to remember the times when it's less lonely or the times when he feels love towards a person or a place.

There is only one thing that his magic couldn’t help him remember, which are any memories concerning Camelot or the first century following that era. He doesn’t dwell on it much, after all, how could you dwell on something you couldn’t even remember? Although every time he wakes up from a particularly vivid dreams about death and destruction, and a heartache long forgotten, he would remember for a brief second of the time when the only true purpose he had to continue living and expand his magic was so rudely taken – ripped – away from his clutches. He might have cried if he doesn't forget about it as soon as wakefulness catches up to him.

Anyway, Merlin hasn't always been lonely. He has had his fair amount of affairs with men and women alike. Earlier in his journeys, he had always searched for blondes that were too competitive for their own good as his partners. Preferably men. Then his attention started to shift towards black-haired men that laughed too loud and drank too much, or dark haired women with fair skin and a smirk that gave him promises of excitement and secrets in their wake. Somewhere, his preferences shifted towards women with darker skin and brown curls with a bright, genuine smile or men with too noble a heart he felt somewhat unworthy. Some times long after Camelot and long into his journeys, it got all muddled up till he believed that he didn't have any types and would take whomever he was interested in and who were interested in him in return. 

He stopped looking for company 20 years ago when he was left by a man who was shot by the stomach as a result of robbery gone awry, and who subsequently died in his arms near a lake where they were vacationing. It reminded him of something so hurtful he couldn't move from his blanket cocoon for days. It also hurt his head and chest so much whenever he forced himself to remember what that 'something' was.

He still couldn't remember.

So those are all he remembers – or thinks about – as he floats down the empty lake in Wales, which he visits whenever he wants to get away from London. It's still at the beginning of the 21st century - only about 13 years since it has started. A small number compared to the length of time he has lived. He still hasn't tried to get himself a job as he's determined to be as lazy as possible - which only resulted in an absolute boredom. So rather than travel the world again, or pick up other meaningless occupations, he dedicates his time into researching which suicide ways are the most painless instead. His quest of finding the quickest ways of killing oneself had been time consuming and a lot painful as hismagic has to right his broken bones, or mend his organs, or supply his body with more blood and sufficient amount of oxygen for him to heal - and the process for them to happen feels like a thousand Greek fires licking his skin and consuming his bones. It's very unpleasant. But it kills time, so he does it anyway.

Drowning is his latest endeavour and so far, it has been the most painful. Also, it took a bit too long for Merlin's liking – so he crosses it from his list of 'nice ways to die' after jumping off bridges because although it was effective and such, it was also nerve breaking having to feel his own neck breaking. Ha.

Anyway, he would never make anything out of this particular research. Not like that one time he researched about _Poisonous Plants in Nature_ and wrote a book out of it. Granted, during the write up of that book, he should have died a couple times over as he poisoned himself with berries or herbs or a wayward snake hadn’t his magic kept him alive and flushed out the poisons. It helped a lot of people though, so he thought it was justified even if he had to spent days being bed-ridden and on the verge of dying. This pursue, though, would never see the light of day because if he wasn't immortal and if his magic couldn't mend his own body, or if he isn't this bored, he never would have tried taking his own life (anymore) no matter how tired he is of trudging through life. This, he realized after the numerous times he tried to take his own life. _It wasn’t worth it_ , he always thought once he had done the deed, and it only made things more painful and difficult for himself. The years of hardened determination had also done him good, seeing as he wasn’t as fragile as he had been in the earlier centuries when he had just lost everything he held dear. He had realized, by then, that life is a precious gift and after the hardship is over, it's actually pretty nice.

Also, he kind of enjoys the evolution of food, especially desserts. Modern day’s cakes and pastries are _wonderful_.

So anyway, drowning. No flashes of memories and slow-playing memories are kind of overrated. He feels disappointed really, and bloody impatient for the peaceful darkness to claim him.

However, just when he's about to lost any coherent thoughts, he is suddenly, and rather rudely, pulled to the surface by a strong yank and he had no time to do much of anything except for breaking through the surface - thanks to the still anonymous helper - and coughs out freezing water.

"What the fuck, mate? Are you mental?" his unwanted-helper's bewildered voice breaks through the dizziness of finally getting air in his lungs again.

"Seriously. It's winter. What the fuck are you doing? Killing yourself isn't the answer to whatever it is you're going through, you know. Are you an idiot?" the man keeps talking and Merlin just wants him to shut up for awhile. At least until his head stops pounding and his lungs feel normal again.

"Look. Not that I don't appreciate your good-will," Merlin says, voice rasped by the water, "but I was doing fine, thankyouverymuch"

The man - his helper - stares at him wordlessly, looking as if Merlin had grown an extra head on his shoulder. He hasn't, he had tried to do that once, when the world was obsessed with Frankenstein's monster - but all he managed to create was a gross pimple on his shoulder. Weird.

Merlin opens his eyes, eventually, and returns the man's stare with what he hopes is challenging. His helper's reaction is not one he had expected, though.

The blonde man gasps, closing and opening his mouth like a fish out of water. And slowly, so slowly, his features softened as he smiles widely and he lets out a chocked laughter, "gods" he exclaims with a misplaced exhilaration, "Merlin?"

Merlin snaps his mouth shut from trying to give him a clever retort and stares at the man harder. He has never seen or met this particular man before. Not one that he remembers, that is. But the man keeps grinning like an oversized child who was just given his favourite toy. So Merlin stares longer because he thinks that if he just stares harder, then some sort of a text might appear, floating around the man's head telling Merlin who he is.

Seconds pass and Merlin still has no idea who this man is. Okay so perhaps he looks somewhat similar to the men Merlin has had affairs with in the past. Blonde hair, blue eyes, strong jawline, muscled body, maybe a bit shorter than him. But there's also something distinctive in his person that makes him different from all those men in Merlin's past. And the longer Merlin tries to remember, the more it hurts his head.

 _Almost like whenever he tries to remember Camelot_ , a little voice in his head quips -Merlin ignores it easy enough.

In the time it took Merlin to scrutinise his helper and muses about the men in his past, the grin that was brandished on the man's face slowly fades and turns into a confused frown.

"You don't remember, do you?" he asks quietly with an accusing tone as though Merlin has just tried to punch his guts and steals his puppy.

"I am sorry…?" is the only lame response Merlin could articulate in that particular moment, being somewhat dumbfounded by the disappointment that etched the man's face.

The man is quiet for some time before the disappointment in his face changes into a quiet determination.

"Right" he claps his hands once, as if deciding something - "right. Come along then, I have spare clothes in my family's cabin. Don't want you to catch your death because of the cold, do we?" he grins again and pulls Merlin's arm before dragging him forward without asking for Merlin's opinion at the matter.

"Oy, you prat" Merlin pulls himself and they skid to a stop. At the last word, the man's shoulders stiffen up and Merlin briefly sees what could only be a fond, indulgent smile on his face before he schools his expression. "What?"

"You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to come or not!" Merlin pulls his arms petulantly and crosses it across his chest.

The man raises his eyebrow, "do you want to?"

Merlin quiets for a while and his jaw chooses that moment to start clacking and the wind chooses that moment to start blowing and as his clothes are still seeping wet, Merlin can't help the continuous shivers across his body.

Merlin scowls as the man smirks smugly. 

"Yeah, okay. I'll take you up on your offer,” he mutters, as he hasn't actually rented a room or brings a change of clothes and he's far too cold and stiff to work out his magic. The man grins again and takes Merlin's right arm to pull him towards the direction of his cabin.

What the man calls a cabin turns out to be a fancy two-story mansion made of oak, located near the lake and up the hill, which gives the place the best view of the Wales countryside. Merlin steps into the foyer in front of the cabin still being hauled unceremoniously by his helper, dripping wet, and sniffling quite badly.

"Art?" a woman's voice calls out as soon as they step into the warmth of the mansion. Merlin takes a deep breath, filling his senses with the smell of roaring fire and pines and cookies - he smiles slightly, it smells just like the humble house of a kind old lady he met in Sweden.

"Here" the man - Art - calls back, manhandling Merlin up the stairs - where a woman stops them in their track.

"Merlin?" she gasps with a similar excited face Art made earlier. And once again, Merlin just clasps his mouth shut and tries to locate the woman in his memory - which also turns out to be useless, as he can't find her, just like he couldn't find Art.

And just like Art, her excited grin turns into a confused frown, turning to look at Art questioningly. He shrugs and shakes his head, but says nothing. She seems to understand though, as she just sighs resignedly.

"What happened to you?" she asks instead, eyeing Merlin in quiet disdain as though he had just personally offend her by being dripping wet and sniffly.

"He tried to drown himself in the lake for fun" Art answers for him, his tone dry and wry while Merlin could only shrug carelessly as it's what it was. He did try to drown himself just for fun.

"Go get him a change of clothes and then we can...introduce ourselves to him by the fire" she smiles sweetly then and sends Art an indecipherable look. Art sours at the mention of introducing themselves to him but continues to haul him upstairs nonetheless.

Several minutes later Art has succeeded on finding him a pair of sweats as Merlin's too small for his jeans, and an oversized hoodie for him to wear while he throws Merlin's clothes into the drier in the basement. Art seems to be in a rush to get him down in front of the fire where the woman waits, sitting on the rug with three cups of steaming ciders in front of her. She smiles again as both Merlin and Art settles side by side in front of her.

"So, Merlin. As you don't know us and you are probably a bit confused as of right now, I think a proper re-introduction is in order." She clasps her hands together on her laps, looking strangely sad and beautiful under the light from the overhead glasses, "my name is Morgana and that one there is Arthur" she stops, searching at his eyes for something she cannot find. She sighs again, "I am his half-sister, courtesy to our faithless and careless father. Which seems to never learn from his mistakes." She mutters the last words so softly Merlin isn’t sure he’s supposed to hear that.

Art - Arthur - grunts at that before burying his face inside his cider mug.

Merlin's head is reeling. Those names sound familiar with something he cannot find. Something - a memory - he has blocked. He scrunches his nose, holding on to the mug's warmness to ground him.

"I suppose it might help if I tell you other names" she continues, unfazed by Arthur's slight protest and Merlin's furrowed eyebrows. "Our dear father's name is Uther. He has a trusted associate and a long time family friend called Gaius"

Merlin looks up at that, eyes wide with a kind of recognition. A writing in a frail parchment, held together in a piece only by his magic - _'Merlin, do good_.'

Arthur looks at him questioningly, a passing hope clouds his eyes before it promptly disappears as Merlin returns into furrowing his eyebrows and looks deep into his cider mug. Morgana continues, "We have a childhood friend named Guinevere, although everyone - everyone except Arthur, that is - calls her Gwen. She is currently engaged to a man named Lancelot and is a sister to Elyan, both of which are Arthur's best mates along with Leon, Gwaine, and Percival" she stops for awhile, waiting for something Merlin's not sure he can give.

And then Merlin lets out a loud snort and pushes the mug away from him - "oh wow." he laughs again, a bit too cynical than he used to, but it is effective nonetheless, seeing as apprehension clouds both of their faces.

"Really? You're going to use the Arthurian legend to mess with me? I mean sure, mess with the man who drowns himself for fun and whose name is Merlin - like the great wizard, huh? I don't know who you guys really are – or how you know my name – perhaps you're just rich kids with too much time at hand, but this is not all right, you know. I mean, really? Arthur? You are trying to impose yourself as the great king? And no offence, lady, but why being the evil witch? The knights of the round table is a great touch, though" he starts to stand, thinking he can always magic his clothes back to him later when he's home and returns the clothes he wears right now at the same time.

He stops, though, when Arthur catches his wrist and holds it in a vice-like grip. None of them laugh or snicker or even have any traces of amusement in their eyes. Both are pursing their lips bitterly and stares at him grimly - and more than a little hurt in Morgana’s case. Okay, so perhaps, upon reflection, _‘evil witch’_ was a bit mean.

"I know you're a bit dim, Merlin" Arthur's tone is a lot exasperated and a little fond - but Merlin's too busy making indignant noises to notice. "But I never thought you to be this dim".

Morgana, bless her, chooses a different approach, "Merlin, have you ever died?"

Maybe not bless her.

"What the hell kind of question is that? Everyone dies!" he sputters his answer.

Morgana stares down at him coldly, as though challenging him to tell more lies. "Merlin. We knew your name before you even introduce yourself. We can show you our IDs if you need prove of the authenticity of our names. Now cut the bullshit, Merlin. Have you ever died?"

Merlin turns to Arthur for help but he holds the same unforgiving expression as Morgana, tinged by sadness and curiosity. His grip on Merlin's wrist doesn't falter, and it's the only thing anchoring him to the ground as he contemplates his answer. He can't as well just tell strangers on whether or not he has ever died. It would not be wise to tell them, would it?

"We also know about your magic" Morgana adds, her icy stare softens as she reaches out for his hands. 

Merlin's eyes widen, something akin to longing fills his senses full. But he is scared. Of course he is - centuries of hiding his special talent, of diverting others' attention once they got too close to the truth has somewhat made him unable to let others in on his secret. So he does what he does best - running away and disappears.

He releases Arthur's grip on his wrist gently, urging them open with the slightest of magic and fishes out his dried clothes from the basement and promptly sneaks away - leaving a gust of wind and perfectly folded clothes on the coffee table in front of the siblings as the only proves of his existence.

Something in them made him forget (and unwilling) to take away the memory of their encounter.

\---

Merlin prefers to live his life modestly, most of the time. He liked to use his time helping as many people as he possibly could, mostly by being a physician in some small villages. And he was a great physician as well, having salvaged Gaius' book collections and use a little of his magic to help along with the healing. However, during the peak of The Great Renaissance Era - as Merlin now calls it - he fell deeply in love with the arts he could acquire given he was one of the higher ranking people. So he faked inheritance and used his abundance of wealth to secure his status as a Lord Emrys. Also, as he was feeling particularly deserving and a lot theatrical, he did all that with a lot of flourishes - going out of his more modest character and brought his suave side to the surface, purchasing a castle-like manor and filled it with butlers and maids, and hosted a lot of parties. And by a lot, he means a lot. Like daily kind of a lot.

For him, it was the best lifetime he had ever lived as he had so little time being alone he did not feel his loneliness or any of the emptiness he harboured at all. But good times must end and people were getting suspicious at his longevity - hence it was decided that he had to move on.

From that, he realised that being under the spotlight made it even harder for him to cover his tracks. He had to use his magic generously to deter others from his tracks and from finding out his inability to die. The lavish way his magic had been used made it weak for almost a year. It was, by contrast to the life he had just left, completely depressing and lonely. It was not only because of his magic or the people, too. He had to change fragments of other people's memories and he felt remorseful at the repercussions of that particular action.

So he stopped doing that completely and lived his life quietly and under the radar.

This century, he lives an even more quitter life - camouflaging himself in the busyness of London's crowd and being utterly unremarkable, especially as he doesn't have a job. He spends his time going through each of London's cafés to find the best café - which really is time consuming. He has abandoned his venture on looking for the quickest and most painless way to die a month ago, after the drowning mishap. He thinks, perhaps, it was an omen. And besides, he should use his magic for better things rather than to put himself together over and over again.

So the mundane venture on finding the best café it is. 

When he doesn't fill his belly full with coffees and cakes, he spends his limitless time walking around London or going to the parks and sketches. Other times, when he doesn't feel like going through the crowd, he would hide himself inside his flat and builds a ford around him with books and just read and read. His latest record was staying in his flat 24/7 for 3 months, all thanks to the wonderful help from the internet that allows him to buy his groceries and books without having to step out of the door - Merlin bloody loves the internet, it is the best thing after his magic, he often thinks.

Admittedly, having no jobs and living alone have a certain consequence in which he could hardly acquire any friends - though really, most of the friendships he had were fragile anyway. Like the friendships he had when he was travelling vigorously at the end of the last century before he moved to London. He went from country to country, continent to continent in an almost monthly basis. And at times like that, he would love nothing more than to befriend as many people as possible. It's easier to have friends when he can leave without having to fake his own death or fake an illness he never gets, and once he's at the airport, he would become another fleeting faces to them and them to him.

So he understands really, that to settle in London means he has condemned himself into a world of loneliness. Strangely, he feels fine about it. He likes the quietness of his flat, interrupted periodically only by the blaring of the police's sirens.

That day, though, he’s being interrupted from his book by more than the sirens.

It takes Merlin more time than he's proud of to realise that it's his buzzer that has gone off for quite some times. To be fair, it does kind of throw him out of the loop seeing as he's not actually waiting for any deliveries and he doesn't have any friends to come and visit him. 

"Yeah?" he answers after several more loud buzz.

"Open your door, you dweep" the impatient voice of his strange visitor is a bit familiar and Merlin tries to locate the voice in his memory - "Open it or I'll get your neighbours to help me up. I'm not kidding." - ah, the man claiming to be Arthur.

"No. You are a creep and I'm not buzzing in creeps."

"It will be embarrassing to everyone -"

"No" 

"I'm serious"

He does sound serious. And the pair of squealing old women that lives next door really does annoy him a lot. So he does what the logical part of him tries to not make him do. He buzzes Arthur in.

He's just about to at least tidy the flat up a bit (with magic of course, he couldn't be arsed to actually pick up all of the scattered books) when he senses someone nearing his doors.

"I want to know how you know where I live." he forgoes the greeting, opening the door before Arthur even has the chance to knock.

"Ah, hello to you too, Merlin. It's nice to see you when you're not dripping wet" he smiles pleasantly, welcoming himself into Merlin's flat.

"Seriously. How do you know where I live? It's kind of stalker-y, you know."

"Morgana has her ways" he waves his hands impatiently, "anyway, I'm here to take you down to the pub. We're meeting with my friends to help you remember our glorious past life"

"No way. You are a stranger and I don't even know why I let you into my flat. You could be a serial killer for all I know." Merlin is sure, though, that he could easily defeat the man if he has to.

Arthur clucks his tongue, fishing out his wallet and flashes Merlin his ID, "Arthur Pendragon, totally authentic" he grins triumphantly at Merlin's gobsmacked expression, “and, really? Serial killer?” he glances dubiously at Merlin’s scattered book collection, “too much fiction can’t be good for your imagination.”

"How does that supposed to make you any less of a stranger?" Merlin asks incredulously, "And you still haven't answered my question about how you guys found out where I live! I've been laying low - no friends, no jobs, nothing. Plus, there is never too much fiction." Merlin continues, prattling away in an attempt to prolong the conversation in hope he could somehow politely ushers Arthur out of his flat and hides himself away from these people and any possible-future-meetings. Maybe by moving away from London.

"Yeah, that. You're such a sad human being. The landlord has your data and Merlin Emrys is pretty obvious for someone who wants to hide his identity. And please don't blame your landlord for leaking out personal information, my father owns this building, so naturally, we have your information" Arthur throws himself onto the sofa, looking at his cluttered flat in distaste, "you haven't changed much" he adds in a small voice.

"I'm sorry, but you've got to go." Merlin walks to the door and opens it for him.

Arthur, for his part, only stares at him quietly. His expression is - again - soft and sad, "please, Merlin. For me. Please"

Something in the blonde's tone - pleading and begging - crumbles Merlin's resolve. Also, if he is to be honest with himself, he is a lot curious about Arthur and Morgana and their friends. He can't just dismiss the fact that they knew his name before he even acknowledged them. And Morgana asked a lot of questions that were too close to the truth. Plus they know about his magic. And Arthur is sending him puppy dog eyes that should not be working, dammit -

The next thing he knows, he finds himself seated in a pub, surrounded by giants of men and two delicate-looking women - which he knows better than to actually think as delicate. He suddenly feels too self-aware, as he becomes the receiving end of eight enthusiastic stares.

He sweeps his clammy hands on his black jeans discreetly.

"So.... hello" he starts, berating himself inwardly for the way his voice cracks. 

"Merlin" everyone in the table - except Morgana and Arthur, both of which are smirking pompously - replies. 

"Uh...Guinevere...?" he nods at the darker skinned woman seated next to Morgana. She and Arthur drop their smirks at the same time as the eyes of everyone in the table widen simultaneously, which would be downright hilarious if Merlin doesn't feel so nervous. 

"You remember!" Guinevere - Gwen - gasps breathlessly, voice filled with wonder - and Merlin hates to have to shatter the illusion.

"Sorry" he winces when Gwen's brilliant smile drops, "it's just that Morgana mentioned something about her and Arthur's childhood friend so I just assumed that you are she..." 

Merlin gulps down his drink, feeling the stares more piercing than ever - not to mention the disappointed looks some of the people try to conceal. Really, he shouldn't feel this bad for people who are practically strangers to him. But he does. He really, really does.

"Can you guess the others' names, then?" Morgana raises her eyebrows in challenge, trying to lighten up the mood.

"Perhaps" Merlin looks around the group, settling his eyes on a man with the same skin complexion as Gwen's, "Elyan" he tips his glass to the man's direction, "Lancelot" he nods at another man whose hand is clasped with Gwen's.

Both men nod cheerfully, giving Merlin a little wave, accompanied by matching grins.

"That's all I can guess from what little information you provided me"

"I can't believe you don't remember me" a roguish-looking man with dark hair and slight stubble on his face murmurs dejectedly, looking at Merlin in a similar fashion as Arthur and Morgana did the first time they realised that Merlin couldn't remember whatever it was he's supposed to remember.

"He can't even remember me, how do you expect him to remember you?" Arthur retorts, tone sharper than perhaps necessary.

"Oy. I've been his friend better than you ever were!" the man bites back, sending glares at Arthur.

"Boys." Morgana holds up her hands, glaring chillingly at them until they shut up. Merlin's a bit glad she didn't send that look to him; he might have to flee again if she did. "That's Gwaine. This one here is Leon, and Percival," she points at a man with light curls and a man with remarkable muscles respectively. Merlin gives them a nod and a small grin.

"So - it seems like you lot have been together for a long time. How long have you known each other, then?" Merlin asks. He can't remember a time in which he has a close friend or any groups of friends as comfortably together as the lot of them are. And honestly, he may be a bit jealous of them.

"Oh, we've practically known each other forever. We couldn't get away from one another even if we're bored out of our minds having to tolerate each other" Leon smiles from behind his beer bottle, "it's nice, though, not having to worry about being alone."

"Yeah, it does sound nice" Merlin smiles wistfully, remembering the countless years he had to spent alone and lonely - going from places to places, haunted by his inability to die.

The jealousy curls uglily on the pit of his stomach.

"Right. I'm going to get the next round" he stands abruptly, taking in the drinks in front of each people and commits them to memory.

"I'm going with you" Arthur volunteers and starts to stands up, "I know better than you what each of them wants anyway,” he says again before Merlin could protest. Merlin shrugs and tilts his head to the bar, stepping out of the table with Arthur - both trying to ignore the wolfish grins the group send to their backs.

"You alright?" he asks, bumping his shoulder to Merlin's gently once they're out of the group's earshot.

"Yeah...it's just...it's nice" Merlin smiles softly, "it's...I've never experienced such a close friendship, you know."

Arthur turns to look at him, giving him a pointed look. "Once you remember, Merlin, you'll know that you have had this." 

\---

Arthur has been born several times over and has always had Morgana as his half-sister and Guinevere as their best friend. Then they would find Lancelot next, and then Leon, Gwaine, Elyan – who was somehow always got separated from Gwen in their childhoods– would show up and lastly, Percival would find them. They would always fall into this easy friendship that could sometimes be borderline co-dependent even before their memories come back when they reach their eighteenth birthday.

And in each of the lives he had been living, Arthur has always known that he's missing something dire and would ache for that something until he remembers what he's missing. Merlin.

Merlin's never there with the group, never once come to them and Arthur is beyond annoyed. Trust Merlin to never follow the crowd.

Arthur spent the majority of his first life after Camelot trying to settle things down with Morgana. They almost killed each other again before both relented and cried in each other's arms - they never spoke of it again, but the affection between them grew. And Arthur wanted to tell Merlin about it and Morgana told him that she wanted to apologise to Merlin and to give Merlin her forgiveness. Yet, he never came.

After making peace with Morgana and aside from fretting over Merlin, Arthur had also settled things down with Guinevere, realising that they have been given a second chance to actually choose what was right. That was, her and Lancelot and perhaps - Arthur hoped - he and Merlin.

Yet Merlin still didn't come back to him.

That first live, as Arthur breathed his last breath, he had hoped for Merlin to be well and happy.

Then, in their fifth life without Merlin, Morgana told Arthur her theory about Merlin never actually dies and that's why he never came to them, never came back to Arthur. He would have scoffed at that and continued in his self-deprecating belief that Merlin just didn't want to be with him hadn't Gaius validated her theory.

That thought distressed Arthur more - because it has to be tiring and lonely, to never die. And Merlin's the last person to deserve such fate.

During the lives he had to suffer through, waiting for the man who never came, he never really takes on anyone aside from several careless flings that he always forgot about after several weeks. And it's not even because he wasn't faithful or that he didn't want to love someone - he has just always been waiting for Merlin to come. He didn't want anyone but him. And anyone he was close with seemed to be too dull compared to him; too un-exciting, too un-Merlin. 

And those people seemed to understand, too, that they would never shine brighter than a shadow of a man from Arthur’s past.

So he waited and waited for Merlin to come back to their life only to find him in his twelfth life, trying to drown himself in a lake - looking the same as he did a long time ago, all rumpled black hair and earnest blue eyes.

He thanked whatever urges Morgana had that forced him into accompanying her to Wales when she never really felt comfortable going there before. Perhaps her seer instinct is still working after all.

As soon as they're back in London, a day after their meetings with Merlin, they chased around for Merlin's information with Arthur begging relentlessly for Morgana to reactivate her seer instincts however way she could - which only resulted in her snapping at him because she was just as frustrated as he was. They spent the better part of the month tracking Merlin down with common and magical instances, as neither would be willing to just let him slips away from their life after waiting to find him for twelve lifetimes. The finding that Merlin was actually staying at a flat only several blocks over was well and truly anticlimactic.

The idea of bringing along Merlin to meet the former knights and Gwen had been Morgana's idea. Arthur hadn't been keen on following that particular idea, seeing as it might overwhelm the warlock and he might just lock Arthur out and flee. The fact that Merlin had gone along was a pleasant surprise, and he’s not complaining.

Still, his somewhat sombre eyes that night, something of a lingering sadness at Leon's story about their friendship was akin to a punch in the stomach. So Arthur did what he does best next - he decided to meddle into Merlin's life righteously - buzzing in on his flat in the most pompous manner until Merlin buzzes him in, pulling him along all over London whenever Arthur wasn't working, pestering him into spending more time with the group (he finds out, a few weeks after he started, that Gwaine was doing exactly what he did though with less intensity), and generally kept popping into Merlin's life - and his flat – until Merlin relented and gave him a copy of his keys two months after that meeting in the bar (Gwaine didn’t get them and Arthur gallantly resisted boasting in his face). Hesaid it would be easier for everyone involved - and less noisy - if Arthur could just come up whenever he feels like it.

Arthur, however, likes to think that the reason Merlin had given him the keys is because he had taken him to Gaius. Merlin hadn't wanted to, at first, insisting that Arthur trying to take him to everyone he knows _is just ridiculous_. But then he agreed when he told him about how Gaius had asked for him several times, wanting to meet Merlin. Their meeting was what Arthur would have expected how a reunion of a long-lost child and their parents would be like - because Gaius looked at him with shiny eyes and Merlin looked confused yet comfortable around him like he could absolutely trust and rely on the older man. Gaius didn't question Merlin about his apparent memory lost and Merlin didn't ask him about what exactly is Arthur kept going on and on about. They developed a strong connection rapidly and they conversed about this and that for hours that Arthur had almost fell asleep on the table.

Merlin then told him that it was great to speak to others about his certain talent. Arthur knew, of course, that he was speaking about his magic, but Merlin didn't seem comfortable telling it to him, so he kept quiet and nodded along to the rest of Merlin's incessant babble. It felt like the old times and Arthur couldn't help the swelling in his chest.

After, when Merlin smiled gratefully and gave him the keys sheepishly, Arthur had been most pleased with himself and Morgana had been proud of him. It was all great.

Except Merlin still hadn’t remembered and sometimes Arthur wants nothing more than to shake him or bash his head on the table until he does - because at times, Arthur catches him looking at him like he was a stranger and it hurts more than he could admit.

Until the long awaited moment comes.

That night, Arthur is having quite a nice dream as he sleeps - a dream involving him and Merlin sitting together in the front stairs of the castle in Camelot, having a bit of their usual banter - when suddenly he is being rudely awaken by his phone.

He checks the time from the blinking alarm clock and almost throws his phone when he sees that it is three in the morning. He answers, though, just because it might be an emergency of some sort - which proves to be the best decision he has ever made.

"Arthur…" a writhing voice calls out, a voice he would recognise anywhere in the world.

"Merlin? What's wrong?" the fogginess of sleep leaves him faster than he thought possible and he is out of the bed and into his walk-in closet in record time.

"I'm not...I don't...I need you" Merlin sobs over the phone, a quiet groan accompanying his words. Arthur finds himself dressed in jeans and a red hoodie by the end of Merlin's words. He is already out of the door by the time Merlin speaks again -

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't bother you, it's just -" Merlin's voice is cut off by another groan and a pained whimper that gets Arthur running towards his car.

"It's okay, Merlin. I'm 5 minutes away" Arthur says to the speakerphone in what he hopes is reassuring.

\---

It's not unusual for Merlin to dream about castles and kings and dragons, what's unusual is the faces he suddenly gets to see. He never once sees a face in his older dreams of the same place; the people were just blank-faced, walking mannequins. In this dream, though, he can clearly see each person's faces and he knows each of their names. It should be ridiculous, and impossible, but he knows. He knows their stories; he knows their families and where they work at. Most prominently, he sees Arthur – golden and bright, standing proudly in the throne room. He sees Arthur – bold and strong, standing in front of a battalion. And he sees him - dejected and sorrowful, looking down at his father's casket, looking like the weight of the world had just fallen onto his shoulders. He sees the men in the group as knights, Gwen as a queen, and Morgana...

In that dream, he seems to always want to reach out to Morgana, but he never could and whatever he does, she would look at him in disdain and contempt.

And then he sees himself. He sees what he does with his magic, killing one person after another, striking them down with lightning, poisoning them, pushing them out of his way-

And then he abruptly awakens, feeling nauseous and distraught - because of the dream, because of the too-real quality of it. And also, because there is something wrong with his head.

His magic is curling inside of his head, pushing on his skull and prickling the back of his eyes, almost like it's forcing open a rusty compartment that had not been opened for a long time.

The click that he thinks he can hear from somewhere inside of his brain sends him reeling to the floor, writhing in pain as the sudden flashes of pictures - memories - blinds him and makes his chest ache so badly he thinks he's being cut open and has his beating heart ripped right out of his ribs.

He dials Arthur's number before he even realises it, being ridden by his instinct to just have Arthur with him. And after Arthur tells him that he's coming, he welcomes the painless darkness gladly.

Merlin wakes up from his unconsciousness feeling like the world has been tilted from its axis. His head is pounding painfully from the assault of centuries-old memories suddenly flows un-contained, crowding in into his brain - and he understands, then, why he couldn't remember much of anything before. It was his self-preserving method not to overload his brain. But somehow, this night, it chooses to open the imaginary box where he contains all of his memories. And it's painful, so painful - not only to his head, but also to his chest as his emotions overwhelm him. Countless heartbreaks, grieve, guilt, losses...Arthur's death - has etched their way onto his hypothetical heart in record time.

"Shh…Merlin, you’re going to be fine…" a murmur pierces through the hazy confusion as he feels a soothing hand petting his hair, massaging his forehead gently. 

"Arthur?" 

"Yes, Merlin. It's okay. What happened?" his voice is so clearly laced with worry and Merlin finds himself reaching out to him.

Arthur pulls him up, bracketing Merlin inside of his legs and holds him up in his arms, "you okay?"

"I'm fine, it's just...Arthur...you died. And I..." he sobs unwillingly, now not with pain, but with centuries old grief he had tried to hide. He feels Arthur tenses and then he hears him laughing joyfully, his voice ringing happily like a child's.

"You remember!" He exclaims, pulling Merlin flush to his chest and holds him in a tight hug. Though it should be uncomfortable and suffocating, Merlin finds that he doesn't mind. Not at all.

"Prat! How could you laugh at the onslaught of memories rushing into me? It’s crushing my head like it's a bloody mashed potato!"

"Oh stop being such a drama queen, Merlin" Arthur moves his hand to the base of his skull, though, massaging it lightly and skilfully, receding his headache significantly and Merlin sighs contentedly, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder.

"Can't believe I forgot you lot," he mutters.

"Yeah, what about that?"

"Uh. To answer Morgana’s question from that time in Wales... I never died, not once. I kept on living and I don't get any older and... I guess locking the memories is a kind of self-preserving method I did. I think I locked my memories myself a few hundred yearsafter you lot left me. I thought it would come back the moment I see you guys. Turns out I was wrong…" he sighs.

"What have you been doing, living all these times?" Arthur asks quietly, carding his fingers on his hair absentmindedly, soothingly.

"So, so, so many things. I like the travels the most, though. I also tried out lots of jobs. Can you believe I was a policeman once?” he chuckles lightly to Arthur’s shoulders. “You must have done a devastatingly bad job at that” Arthur smirks into his curls, inhaling the smell of apple from Merlin’s shampoo.

"Excuse you. I caught a lot of criminals during my service time, I’ll let you know!” he swats Arthur’s arm lightly and Arthur tightens his grip.

“I’m sure,” his condescending tone suggests otherwise, though. But Merlin is above arguing, “Tell me about your past lives.” 

"Couldn't remember the first one very well. I only remember making peace with Morgana and I figured things out with Guinevere."

Merlin tenses, "I have to speak to Morgana!" 

"Tomorrow - or later. This is my time" Arthur insists, burying his nose into Merlin’s hair again, not wanting to let him go.

"What about you and Gwen, then?" he asks softly, fingers twisting into the hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck.

"We were wrong for each other. We did love each other, but truth be told, we were more like each other’s backup plan," he snickers.

“Yeah? You’ve got a firm choice?” Merlin asks teasingly.

"Yeah. You."

And that, just that. That simple answer makes Merlin goes still for awhile because he might not remember Camelot before, but now that he does, he also remembers all the love and all the devotion he had - has - for this one single man. 

He pulls back a little, enough to look up and searches for Arthur's eyes. "I'm glad," he whispers affectionately, a private smile on his lips.

And it's easy, really. So, so easy for them to find each other in the middle, kissing like that's the only thing keeping them from crumbling under the weight of the impromptu turn of events - what with Merlin suddenly having an onslaught of memories about the people he thought strangers and Arthur with the relief of not having to look and _wait_ anymore.

"I've been waiting for you for eleven lifetimes, Merlin" he breathes.

"Twelfth time luck, then?" he grins cheekily against Arthur's lips. 

\---

"Morgana" Arthur starts pleasantly, greeting her with a shit-eating grin that's just too happy for 8 o’clock on a Sunday morning.

"Arthur. To what do I owe the pleasure?" she arches her perfectly shaped eyebrows. 

Arthur nudges the door open with the tip of his toes and sweeps his hands towards the back of the door theatrically. As if on cue, Merlin suddenly appears by the door, looking sheepish and shy and so tiny Morgana wants to crush him in a hug. And if she sees right, Arthur seems to want to do just that, too.

“Morgana…” he says, hands picking on the threads of his jumper nervously. He opens his mouth again, about to say something but chokes on the words instead.

“Merlin? What's wrong?” She reaches out, putting her hands on his biceps, drawing him close. He stares at her wide-eyed and makes a strangled sound. 

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. Oh gods, Morgana, I am so sorry” he vomits out the word, rushing through as though she would suddenly push him away, “I should have handled everything better and gods, poisoning you and pushing you down the stairs...oh gods I don’t know how I could apologize for all that but I am! I was silly and too naïve and I was such an idiot. I should have just told you what I am and we could have just skipped the whole killing each other thingy and…" Merlin's voice hitches. Morgana stiffens for a moment before she throws her arms around him, sobbing once before she rests her forehead on his shoulder and holds on.

"I've forgiven you eleven lifetimes ago, Merlin, please do catch up" her breathless laugh lasts only for so long before she sighs and buries her head deeper, "I apologize for what I have done as well. We were both young and reckless and driven by fear too much for too long, yeah?"

Merlin tightens his grip on Morgana, flinches as he remembers everything foul. But they have forgiven one another and isn't that what matters most?

"Alright you two! Enough hugging for now! We've got lots of stories to tell each other about." Arthur suddenly appears by their side and they jump slightly as if they have forgotten that Arthur is there with them.

Morgana laughs again, extracting herself from Merlin’s hold, letting Arthur pulls him into his arms and beckons at them to follow her to the kitchen. Wine seems to be a great idea.

“So, Merlin, how did you escape us in mine and the others’ past lives?” she pours the wine while dabbing at her eyes discreetly.

“Oh you wouldn’t believe it” Arthur snickers, “We had a close encounter two lifetimes ago. He was just too much of a dimwit to acknowledge us” 

“Oy! I didn’t remember, you arse!”

She smiles at the familiarity of that exchange, giving them their glasses. They spend most of that Sunday confined in the kitchen, sitting on the stools until all of their backsides are shore and they have to move to the living room. But that doesn’t matter, not when stories after stories are told and laughter is shared. At midday, Gwaine joins them bearing pizzas so that he can be allowed in by Morgana, which only results in the whole gang joining them. Gwaine has a huge gob and Morgana should have known.

Arthur keeps his arms around Merlin during the whole debacle, having unable to keep his hands off him. He has waited for too long for him and he would not let him go for quite some times. Forever, perhaps.

Arthur knows, deep down, that something big is going to come to them - because whenever they were being reborn in the past, they had always had to assist some people or another on some big things or another. And them being reunited with Merlin means something even bigger – bigger than anything they have ever encountered would come. But he couldn’t care less at that particular moment. He has his friends with him, his family, his mentor – and most importantly, he has Merlin now. Any fears, any doubts, any other things aside from Merlin and him can wait.

He doesn’t realize that he has tightened his grip on Merlin until the man stirs and looks up at him with a fond smile, “Arthur? What is it?”

“It’s just…it’s good to have you back with me” he mutters, burying his head on the space between Merlin’s neck and his shoulder.

“It’s good to have you with me, too” he presses his lips on Arthur’s temple gently and Arthur feels, rather than see, his smirk.

Yes. Everything else can wait. Right now, he has Merlin in his arms and he has his friends chattering away ceaselessly around him and this is the happiest he has ever been since that blasted first lifetime after Camelot where Merlin didn’t show up on him and all the other times since when he had to wait for his bloody ex-manservant.

Merlin seems to sense his strange mood; he turns his head slightly, urging Arthur to look up to him.

“You okay?”

Arthur presses his lips to Merlin’s, giving him butterfly kisses before nodding. He has a lot to learn and relearn about Merlin and Merlin him, but they have got nothing but timefor that. He kisses him again, deeper this time, filled with love and devotion and longing and contentment.

Finally contentment.


End file.
